The Whiz Mob and the Grenadine Kid

  You’re welcome.

  “Who are you riding? Who’s your horse?” asked the man. He was speaking sideways around an enormous cigar that was clenched in his teeth.

  Molly, impressively, did not miss a beat. “Sultan’s Bride,” she answered.

  “She running . . . ?”

  “In the tenth,” answered Molly.

  The man chomped on his cigar and studied her. “What are you, one ten? One twenty?”

  “One hundred and fifteen centimeters tall,” she replied.

  “Perfect. You can ride Baron Moncerf’s horse in the sixth. Kingmaker’s jockey is out. Bad oysters, apparently. I’ve got silks for you behind the paddock.”

  This was the first time Charlie had seen Molly hesitate; she appeared thrown. “I . . .”

  “Sixth race. They’re moving them to the gate now.”

  “I should really . . . ,” began Molly.

  “You are a licensed jockey, aren’t you?” asked the man, pulling the cigar from his mouth and letting a plume of smoke drift from his lips.

  “Of course.”

  “Then follow me,” said the man. “We need someone on that horse now.”

  Charlie waited for Molly to flash him what he imagined would be a quick, anguished look, but, to her credit, she did not. Whatever fear she might’ve been feeling, her only tell was a slight hiccup in her first step as she moved to follow the man before picking up a confident pace and striding out of the paddock.

  “Molly!” hissed Charlie, alarmed. Why hadn’t they foreseen this? Wouldn’t putting one of the tools in jockey silks and installing her in the paddock have invited this? He looked around the room. He was afraid to draw attention—he was so loaded down with valuables stolen from every chump in the room that he was barely able to keep his pants up. Slowly, carefully, he turned around and walked out of the paddock. He made a slight jingling noise with every step, like he had bells on his feet. Once he was out of earshot, he began running, sounding like some sleigh escaped from a Christmas pageant, through the tunnel and out into the daylight.

  “Excusez-moi,” said a woman, leaning up against the wall of the grandstand. “Jeune homme!” Charlie looked over at her; she pointed to his feet. He looked down. Someone’s gold choker had made its way down his leg and was now emerging at the hem of his pants. He waved a thank-you and quickly reached down to grab it, stuffing the chain back into his pocket. He could feel the other items that Mouse had stashed on him beginning to travel around his person. He’d spent most of the day testing the capacity of all his pockets—it seemed as if the stitching was finally giving way. Grasping at the outside of his pants, he halted his quick pace and sauntered, awkwardly, toward the exit of the park. When the kiosk came into view and he was sure no one was looking, he began running across the pavement. Coins rattled from his pockets and jangled to the ground. Arriving at the sack of loot, he quickly emptied his pants of the plunder and made a mad dash back to the concourse.

  “Amir!” he shouted, forcing his way through the crowds. “Amir!”

  The boy was standing with Sembene and Fatour; they were eating ham sandwiches. Amir jolted at the sound of his name being shouted so loudly.

  “Charlie, keep it down,” said Amir. “This place is hopping with whiz coppers now.”

  “It’s Molly,” Charlie managed, sputtering breathlessly. “Molly. The Mouse. She’s a jockey.”

  “I know,” said Amir. “That was Pluto’s idea.”

  “No. You don’t understand. She’s really jockeying. They’ve got her on a horse.”

  “Nah,” put in Sembene. “Molly, she does not know how to ride a horse.”

  Charlie blanched. “She doesn’t . . . ,” he sputtered. “Don’t they teach you that at your school?”

  “Equestrianism?” said Fatour, taking a bite of his ham sandwich. “Wouldn’t be necessary, I don’t think.”

  “That doesn’t matter. She’s riding. In the race!”

  Just then, a trumpet fanfare blared from the conical speakers mounted inside the grandstand. A voice announced the horses’ procession to the starting gate. Amir, Sembene, Fatour, and Charlie all ran for the guardrail. Several horses and their jockeys were making their way along the thick dirt carpet of the track. One horse strayed behind, shying and snorting, clearly at odds with its rider. This was undoubtedly Molly’s horse, Kingmaker. She’d shed her purple-and-orange silks for a green-and-white-checked outfit and was desperately trying to regain control of her unruly mount.

  “Oh heavens,” said Amir. “This will not be good.”

  A few of the jockeys watched their hapless fellow rider with curiosity. The trumpet rang again; the horses began loading into the starting gate. Molly was still wrestling with Kingmaker on the track. A few officials began to make their way over to her, but before they drew close, the horse apparently decided on its own that it was ready to race; it suddenly bolted toward the gate stalls. Molly was thrown backward against the horse’s flanks, but she managed to keep one hand on the reins. This was not Kingmaker’s first race; sensing his rider’s cluelessness, he managed to kick and snort his way into the starting gate with very little guidance from Molly.

  “Les chevaux sont sous les ordres!” sounded the announcer from the stands.

  Charlie began biting his fingernails. Borra sidled up beside them. “What is happening?” he asked.

  “Molly’s on a horse,” replied Amir.

  “Seven horse,” said Sembene.

  “Kingmaker,” said Charlie. “She got conscripted.”

  “Oh,” said Borra. “She cannot ride a horse.”

  The four boys next to him all nodded their heads simultaneously in agreement.

  “As long as she does not mess with Grecian Dancer, this is fine.”

  Charlie looked over at the Bear. Borra shrugged.

  A bell rang; the starting gate made a loud metallic clang as the ten gates, in unison, slammed open.

  “Et ils sont partis!” shouted the announcer. The crowd roared. The horses pummeled onto the track, an explosion of mud, muscle, and noise.

  Molly and Kingmaker were still in the gate.

  Charlie, even from his remove, could hear the girl cursing the horse. Kingmaker seemed to have a plan of his own—perhaps chagrined by the fact that his rider was so inept. Finally, after a few desperate kicks to his flanks from Molly, the horse leapt from the gate and onto the track. Molly let out a scream that could be heard from the farthest bleacher seat. She was immediately thrown backward. A single stirrup, her right foot affixed inside, saved her from toppling off her steed altogether. Charlie gasped.

  “Hold on, Molly!” shouted Amir.

  The peloton of horses was already rounding the first bend of the track’s semicircle by the time Kingmaker was out of the gate and sprinting. Molly lolled on the horse’s rump like a rag doll doing sit-ups as she tried to right herself. Her writhing must’ve gone some way to spook the horse, as he began to spring faster and faster with every movement she made.

  The crowd, initially focused on the scrum of horses in the lead, suddenly caught sight of Kingmaker and his dangling jockey.

  “Regardez!” shouted a man behind Charlie.

  “C’est dommage!” shouted another. Charlie could only imagine the dismay of those who’d put their money on Kingmaker. A scattering of tickets showered over Charlie’s head, proving this assumption right.

  Miraculously, Molly had managed to get herself back in the saddle. She’d kicked her left foot into the stirrup and was reaching for Kingmaker’s reins as they whipped, noodle-like, across his neck. Sensing this, the horse seemed to lean into his sprint; he was now just a few strides from the pack. The onlookers in the stands picked up on this incredible recovery and began crowding toward the guardrails. Much to Charlie’s amazement, Molly and Kingmaker had managed to insert themselves into the lead pack of horses and had, together, heaved into the second furlong of the race. Just then, he felt Amir whisper into his ear.

  “Look, Charlie.”
br />   Amir was nodding to the surrounding crowd: they were all perfectly rapt, hypnotized by the incredible sight of the horse and his incompetent rider as they nosed into sixth, then fifth, then fourth place. Amir smiled at Charlie. “The perfect stall.”

  And with that, the pickpockets got back to work, fleecing whatever valuables remained from the moneyed race-goers—all those watches, wallets, and chains that had not yet found their way into the pickpockets’ nimble fingers. Meanwhile, Molly and Kingmaker had improbably kicked into high gear and were coming around the corner and into the final furlong with gusto, running neck and neck with the front-runner—a horse that wore the number five, listed in the program as one Grecian Dancer. Those who’d torn up their tickets saw this change in fortune and began scrambling around on the ground, desperately trying to piece together the shreds of paper they’d so recently scattered to the pavement.

  The final stretch arrived; the horses all leaned into their stride as their jockeys laid hard on their whips. Molly was clinging to the saddle for dear life, listing ever more off to the side like some trick rider. Molly and Kingmaker made a solid challenge to Grecian Dancer’s dominance. Charlie moved to the guardrail and watched, captivated.

  “Go, Molly!” he shouted. “Come on, Kingmaker!”

  He felt a strong push at his side. It was Borra. “C’mon, Grecian Dancer! Get up there, number five!” he hollered. He had his ticket stub clenched in his thick fingers. In a flash, the horses all clambered across the finish line and the crowd exploded in cheers.

  It would be said that Kingmaker, the Arabian quarter horse from the stables of Baron Moncerf of Paris, made his name that day. He would go on, of course, to prove his mettle in some of the most prestigious stakes races of the European circuit. From there, he would eventually conquer the Triple Crown in America, a feat not matched a full quarter century after his death. As the equestrian-minded reader will know, he would be retired with full honors to a grassy field in Brittany, there to live out his days feeding on ripe clover and frolicking in that unearthly Breton sunshine. When he died, he was eulogized by presidents and prime ministers alike; all the great European leaders strove to outdo one another in their remembrance of this incredible creature and the races he’d run and won. And no eulogy was complete without mention of that day in April 1961, at the Hippodrome Marseille Borély, where Kingmaker first tasted that sweet liquor of victory, ridden haphazardly by an unknown jockey who disappeared—melted into air, as it were—as soon as the horse and rider had crossed the finish line.

  By the time the owner’s entourage had gathered in the winner’s circle and the wreath of red roses was being slung over Kingmaker’s sinuous neck, the Whiz Mob had grabbed their stash from the ticket kiosk and were dashing for the bus stop, there to make the long ride to the Panier and the Bar des 7 Coins. Borra threw himself down heavily on the bench next to Charlie, grumbling, “Fine tip, Charlie. Fine tip.”

  The scraps of a torn ticket fluttered to the bus floor.

  Chapter

  TWELVE

  Back at the scatter, the celebration was uproarious. Pluto and Jackie, having had the largest haul of the entire mob, regaled the pickpockets with their story of daring among the upper crust in the Premier Club. They did so without dropping their adopted personas of Alejandro and Jacqueline, he a leering South American oil tycoon and she his trophy bride. They spoke in hilariously mincing accents and sashayed around the room like the sort of cartoonish aristocrats one sees in the funny papers. A large emerald-encrusted brooch, binged from someone Pluto gathered to be a Swiss oligarch, claimed pride of place at the center of the large table in the catacomb. Michiko and Borra, like Charlie’s section of the Whiz Mob, had had a different kind of success working the bettors’ stalls, favoring quantity over quality. They’d watched the race standings closely and targeted the gamblers who were on hot streaks—those whose wallets and purses were bound to be the fattest.

  Molly the Mouse fumed angrily the entire bus ride to the Panier and then again all the way through the warren of streets and alleyways to the doorway of the Bar des 7 Coins. She was still glowering under a dark cloud, tucked away in one of the catacomb’s blanketed recesses, when they began distributing the score and, in the argot, dinging the dead ones.

  “Come on, Mouse,” said Pluto. “Haven’t you suffered enough?”

  “You have to admit,” added Amir, “it was a brilliant ploy.”

  “Best stall I’ve ever seen,” said Michiko. “Right when the whiz dicks were coming out and the whole tip was getting rumbled.”

  Borra, grumbling again, dissented: “I get fifteen francs of her share. She cost me that. Grecian Dancer should’ve won that race, fair and square.”

  This quip finally got the Mouse talking. “Oh ha, ha, ha,” came the girl’s voice from the little grotto. “It’s all just a laugh to you lot. A fine bit of funny business. I ain’t never ridden no horse afore, ’member? Coulda been killed up there. Nearly did so.”

  Amir, laughing, wandered over to where she sat. “Come on, Molly. You did the mob good. They’ll be punching gun on this one for years back at the school. Wait till the Headmaster hears tell.”

  “I just want my clothes back,” said Molly, her arms folded defiantly across her chest. She was still wearing her garish jockey silks, the ones the gentleman in the paddock had given her.

  Jackie stifled a laugh. “The green and white really suits you, dear,” she said, in her best Jacqueline voice. “Don’t you think so, Alejandro?”

  Pluto leaned his shoulder against Jackie’s and twirled a watch fob. “Oh, it does, dahhhling, it just does.” They both fell together, laughing.

  A frilly pillow was launched, cannonball-like, from the alcove. It hit Pluto squarely in the face. “And that’s not the last of it, you keep that up!” shouted Molly, before turning away angrily and staring at the wall. Pluto gave his fellow pickpockets a kind of who’s the sore sport look. They continued to gab over the table as they separated the wallets and purses from the cash they contained.

  Charlie walked over to the alcove. “Hey, Molly?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I feel like . . .” He struggled for the words a moment before saying, “Like maybe it was my fault? I should’ve said something to that man. I should’ve gotten us both out of there. That’s what a real tool would’ve done.” The girl’s back was facing him. He couldn’t tell if she was registering what he was saying. “Anyway, I’m sorry.”

  The girl didn’t answer for a long time. Finally, just before Charlie was going to return to the table, he heard her say, “Don’t think nothing on it. It weren’t your fault.”

  Charlie paused, chewed on his lip a moment and, deciding on something, turned around. “Hey,” he said, “I found this on the table. Figured you should have it.” Molly turned around to face him as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a long metallic chain. On it, someone had attached a small silver pendant shaped like a mouse. He handed it to Molly. She took it, admiring it in the glow of the dim electric light.

  “Aw, thanks, Charlie,” the girl said, brightening. “That’s real nice.”

  Back at the table, tall piles were being amassed, a taxonomical audit of everything the upper slice of society might carry with them to some public outing. Once the final watch had been appraised, the final coin spun across the table to join its fellows, the pickpockets were allotted their portion of the proceeds. A handful of cash and few bits of jewelry that might be easily pawned were handed out to each member of the Whiz Mob in kind, a sort of daily take or per diem in lieu of actual wages from their ringleader, the Headmaster of the School of Seven Bells. Jackie, as lead cannon, did the honors, singling out each pickpocket with a comment on their contribution.

  “Pluto, ace work foldering a proper jug crush,” she said as she slid a pile of cash and a gold watch over to where he stood.

  “Michiko—solid pull, even if you were working lone wolf half the day.” The girl glared at Borra as she received
her share.

  Before the Bear could defend himself, Jackie spoke: “Bear, next time keep focused on the job, not so much on the odds. Maybe you won’t lose money instead of binging it.”

  “I would have come up very good if not for—”

  Jackie hushed him, sliding him his portion of loot. “You can eat your losses. A bet’s a bet.” The Mouse had climbed sheepishly from her hiding place and was standing at the far end of the table. “I think Molly gets double share, considering that ace stall. And winning a stake race to boot.” A sizable pile was collected and pushed toward the girl in the jockey silks. “Incredible job there, Mouse. You put your life on the line. We’ll make sure the Headmaster hears.”

  Molly blushed and received her portion.

  The doling out of the assessments and daily cut continued until each of the pickpockets had been recognized. When it was done, Amir stepped forward.

  “What about Charlie?” he asked.

  “Charlie? He was playing center field,” was Jackie’s reply.

  “But he duked for Sembene and Fatour and me.”

  “And for me,” put in Molly. “If he weren’t been there, I’d’ve been stuck with a heap of okus.”

  Charlie, moved by these acknowledgments, remained quiet.

  “He was on the job, so he gets his share. In with the pinches, in with the pokes,” said Amir. The rest of the pickpockets lauded this statement with quiet murmurs of approval.

  “Okay, Charlie,” said Jackie. “You earned yourself a cut.” She slid a stack of franc bills toward him. Reaching into the pile of assorted slum, or jewelry, she found a small, ornate pocketknife and tossed it to Charlie. He caught it in the air.